


Soundless Games

by Nonymos



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, But it won't be enough, Clint is a BAMF, Cruelty, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Rape, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PTSD, Poor Clint, Porn With Plot, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sedatephobia, Set during the movie, Taking 'safe-word' to a whole new level, Warning: Loki, What did Clint ever do to me, Whump, angst angst angst, gagging, silent sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki breaks Hawkeye, it's only long-distance psychological warfare, nothing more.</p><p>As it turns out, he could have spared himself the trouble, since Barton is not the type to pour his heart out, especially not to people who might worry about him.</p><p>There's still strange, unheard-of PTSD and something worse coming his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deafening

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _**Disclaimer:** I wrote this fic a long time ago, and I don't like it anymore. However, I do not believe in suppressing your old work or disowning it. I'll be very glad if you can enjoy it, even though I no longer do._  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Sooo I did it again. Must be the exams coming up.  
> A bit of porn with plot because I wasn't really satisfied with all the Clint/Loki rapefics out there - what are Loki's motives for sudden physical assault ? How would he play it out ? And then it grew into a real fic with four whole chapters. Go figure.

 

 

 

 

For all their pettiness, the mortals hadn't been weak-minded to the point of hiding the Tesseract in plain sight. When the two Jeeps rushed out in the open, Loki could make out the flat-lined horizon of an endless desert under the nocturnal skies. But there was a road – a foolish move, really, to clear a path for others to access the facility. Not that the demi-god had followed any kind of path coming there.

Now that it had expelled a significant load of energy, the Tesseract was behaving again, for the time being. Loki could feel it buzzing quietly in the briefcase he had snatched from that black man's hands – _Fury._ He smirked quietly in the rush of cold air. Mindless, helpless fury, which reminded him of Thor, boasting and booming and failing to notice Loki's tricks. If his enemies really shared that same unsubtle nature, this was a fight he could easily win. Suddenly, the Other's threats were becoming even more ludicrous.

 

*

 

It was only after three hours that the car finally stopped. Loki instantly jumped to the ground, and walked around the vehicle to find that one of the men he had turned was already out – that sturdy, somehow sullen sniper, who had killed every man he had been aiming at during the car chase. He had driven them to the lair in record time, too, and didn't seem the slightest bit tired. A most valuable investment, as it seemed.

Loki took the time to give the scientist – Selvig – a few instructions along with the Tesseract case. Only when he had disappeared inside the bowels of the building did he turn back to his catch. He could afford spending the rest of the night interrogating him ; the more he would know about his enemies, the better, and he had the feeling the man standing at attention before him was more than just an ignorant hitman.

“So” he grinned. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing ?”

“Agent Clint Barton, sir” the man replied. “Codename Hawkeye.”

Loki raised an eyebrow.

“I never miss, sir” Barton explained.

“Never ?”

The sniper only stared at him insolently, his blue gaze unfaltering. Loki smirked. Oh, he was going to like this one.

 

*

 

Barton proved himself a true cornucopia of information indeed. Loki already knew about Banner and Stark, of course – they were integral parts of the initial plan – but Barton completed his knowledge and gave him interesting bits about Rogers and Romanov, the lot of them forming the _Avengers Initiative._ Another of these pompous, empty names.

As it turned out, he did appreciate Barton. He liked his witty retorts, his sober efficiency, his complete lack of morals – although this last trait was probably an effect of the mind-control. The man was an incredibly skilled archer indeed, a brilliant sniper, a good fighter, and a sharp strategist, too. His grasp of the Midgardian world and underworld was priceless. And, above all, he was a SHIELD agent. The implications of this weren't lost on Loki – Barton was a hostage, as well as a henchman.

But it didn't seem his own plan could allow him to take advantage of this. After yet another unpleasant encounter with the shadow of the Other, he found himself thinking. In less than twenty-four hours, he would be captured – and with any luck, taken directly to Banner – while Selvig would be left to his own devices. Barton would later lead the attack on the Helicarrier so he could escape, but then what of him – _if_ he survived ? Loki would have no more use for him with the Chitauri swarming the city, but it felt like a waste, somehow.

He smirked. Since he had extra material to play with, he might as well play his very favorite game. He had always preferred psychological warfare to the actual battlefield. Barton was very close to at least one of the Avengers ; what if they were to retrieve him ? It was a small possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. He would have to make sure the mere understanding of what their friend had been through would plunge them in such horror they couldn't even react to the eventuality of their own doom.

Loki looked up and let his gaze trail on the archer, who was currently checking his weapons on the other side of the mildly crowded room. Selvig was feverishly fiddling with the Tesseract, his hair disheveled and his eyes an unhealthy shade of blue – the mind-control was slowly tearing up his sanity by forcing him to act against his deepest convictions ; but Barton was as cool and collected as he would have been in his normal state, a sign that he was an adaptable man who had been subjected to much worse. As it seemed, working for a world conqueror wasn't so different from his usual day. If Loki really wanted to break him, he couldn't simply send him back to his friends like this – the recovery would be almost certain and way too quick for his liking.

His eyes wandered on the sleeveless arms, the well-toned muscles rippling under the skin. There are only so many ways to bring a man down – although the number of variations _is_ virtually infinite. The ideal scenario would have involved Barton hurting someone he loved, of course, but it was unattainable. And the second best option pleased Loki more and more as he kept watching Barton's broad shoulders, slightly glistening with sweat under the harsh light. The memory of his usefulness during the last days did nothing to smother his anticipated pleasure, on the contrary. Breaking a valuable object was always so much more fulfilling.

He got up. He had a few hours left ; it would be more than enough.

 

*

 

He closed the door behind them and nodded slightly to Barton. The archer nodded back, then stripped as he had been previously ordered, without the slightest hint of shame. His body was crisscrossed with scars – some very impressive – but still harmonious in its sturdy shape, all hard muscle and taut nerves. When he was done, he knelt down on the bare floor, and actual _hunger_ stirred up Loki's stomach. He could feel his own pupils blowing up at the thought of what would follow.

He discarded his own armored coat, but kept his other clothes on and never let go of his staff. Barton was kneeling with his gaze on the wall, looking perhaps a bit unsettled for the first time – _this_ wasn't part of his usual line of work, and the mind-control was beginning to strain to keep his thoughts in one piece. He stayed silent, though, the blue power pulsing in his eyes still stronger than whatever objections struggled to be heard at the back of his brain.

Loki put a gentle hand under his chin and lifted his head up. Barton swallowed, but said nothing, his expression still sullen and neutral in the dim light. The demi-god's thumb lazily rubbed up his jaw to press at his lower lip. The archer obediently opened his mouth ; Loki hooked his thumb inside and pulled down, forcing his jaws wider open, then stuffed a leather gag inside his mouth. Barton's throat worked silently as he shifted his tongue to accommodate it, but his eyes remained dull and fearless.

In a sudden violent move, Loki grabbed his hair and shoved him forward so he would fall on his stomach. The archer's hands slapped on the naked floor as he barely managed to avoid breaking his nose, and his whole body tensed at the coldness of the bare cement. The demi-god smiled in the corner of his mouth, then crouched next to him and ran an icy finger along his spine, up to the back of his neck. Barton shivered, but then rested completely his chest on the floor, his forearms slowly relaxing as they lay flat on each side of his head. Loki grabbed his wrists and pulled them forward, extending his arms until he could clasp his hands on a strong pipe running along the plinth of the wall. He tied his wrists strongly and gave a few experimental tugs – Barton had a very impressive upper body strength thanks to his years of archery. But he couldn't break free from this.

He smirked again. The archer was still fairly calm, even though he twisted his wrists nervously in the restraints. Loki got up and took a few steps back. He didn't waste any time admiring his handiwork, though, but placed a foot between the archer's calves and spread his legs apart.

Barton _almost_ resisted – then went along with it. Opened up as he was, he still couldn't repress another shiver when Loki knelt between his parted thighs. The demi-god knew he was waiting to hear some kind of reassurance, anything that could comfort him in the idea that this was all perfectly normal – and that was why he was, for once in his life, so delighted in keeping silent. 

He pressed his hands on Barton's inner thighs, making him startle slightly at the sudden contact, then slid them up to his ass. He gripped it firmly before parting the cheeks open. Barton's arms tensed, pulling at the leather lashes, but he didn't struggle and his breathing remained very even. Loki raised two slender fingers to his own mouth and licked them dutifully, all the while enjoying the sight of the taut muscles in Barton's wiry back, like a bundle of snakes under the skin. When he estimated his fingers to be slick enough, he pulled them out of his mouth and pressed at Barton's entrance. The archer had been expecting this ; he didn't move, and even relaxed a little when the first digit pushed into him. Loki worked him open slowly, gently, smiling at Barton's slight sighs. Gender and pleasure were two different things on Asgard, but Midgardians seemed quite uncomfortable with the concept, which would only add to Barton's uneasiness as he had claimed to be strictly heterosexual during one of their little chats.

Speaking of uneasiness – it was time to get to the real thing.

Loki promptly wished his own clothes away – he had been hard for a while now – then reached for the staff he had dropped somewhere next to Barton.

 

*

 

Suddenly the blue haze vanished, and he could see clearly.

There were strong slender hands on his lower back, on his _ass,_ slipping under his hips to brace themselves and what – wait – how – this meant _wait wait–_

– he let out a muffled sound behind his gag as someone pushed into him, not as much hurt as lost in panic and utter confusion, unable to understand how he had gotten there or why this was happening. He choked on his gag, before realizing he had to breathe through his nose – _gagged ?_ When had he been – but next was the slow burn in his shoulders, arms twisted, wrists bound tight, leather restraints cutting in his skin. Cold floor under his chest and stomach and groin – naked, stripped bare, and _who the fuck –_ a memory, his last memory, _I am Loki, of Asgard._

His scrambling thoughts broke up when the man above him pulled out and _shoved_ back. He groaned, pulled at his bonds as there was nothing else to hold onto, trying to ignore it, to push it away, but it was just impossible. He could feel _everything_ with unbearable acuteness,up to the smallest details, from the stretching of his muscles to the shape of the cock that was being forced into him, as though his insides harbored even subtler sensibility than the tip of his fingers or tongue. It rubbed lazily against him when pushing in, then chafed his barely-lubed flesh on its way out. He couldn't think anymore, the astonishment and confusion short-circuiting his brain, only leaving room for raw pain and disgust as Loki pounded into him more and more feverishly, his breath hitching at each thrust now. This could only mean one thing – Clint was no virgin, he had been on the giving end of this, but he absolutely refused it – he wasn't a goddamn _fleshlight,_ for fuck's sake, no way in hell – he arched and struggled as violently as he could, but the demi-god only huffed a laugh and forced the way all the more, choking the breath out of him with the unbearable sensation of someone else's flesh invading his own flesh. Loki began to let out short trembling sounds, more and more frantic until he came with a shameless moan of pleasure, jerking and twitching inside Clint who could feel the liquid warmth spilling into him.

He dropped his head, breathing fast, choking on a sob of rage. Loki pulled out, sighing, and probably slumped forward since long locks of hair brushed Clint's naked back. The archer was trembling with disgust. He could almost see Loki's smirk, could almost hear his smooth voice already. The demi-god would, no doubt, be delighted in telling him what lay ahead, for him and his friends. At least he could learn a few things – for how long had he been there ? What was the situation ? Were Fury and Hill alive – and Selvig ? Had he made it out ?

Loki was still catching his breath. Clint twitched a bit impatiently. He could tell the demi-god was the grand, talkative type of adversary, the kind of guy who just couldn't get enough of the sound of his own voice and would – sometimes literally – die for the chance of a good speech. It was surprising enough that he hadn't said anything during the rape. Clint hadn't ever forced anyone, but he was no stranger to the art of torture, and he knew what he would have whispered in Loki's ear, had he been the one on top – and had he been sick enough to do this. _Feels good ? Want more ? Enjoying it ?_

Loki took a deeper breath in, and Clint trembled in expectation. _Come on, asshole. Tell me what the fuck is going on.  
_

 

_*_

 

Loki smirked. He hadn't had an orgasm of this quality in decades. Under his weight, Barton was shivering, his eyes glistening with tears of humiliation, although he seemed mostly furious. The demi-god could tell he was waiting for him to talk – and he would have done so, in different circumstances. But here, silence was the key.

He grinned wider, rolled his hips, then spread Barton's thighs and pushed into him _again._ The archer jerked in incomprehension and pulled at his bonds hard enough for the leather to cut quite deeply into his wrists. When Loki snapped his hips, he let out a muffled sound of protestation, and the demi-god heard it for what it was – _why wouldn't Loki say anything ?_ Why would he just use Barton soundlessly like that, when there _had_ to be more to this than just wicked pleasure ? Why wouldn't he at the very least explain his own intentions – confirm whether or not he was acting out of gratuitous cruelty ?

Loki could almost have climaxed again from the sheer knowledge of the raging confusion he knew was going on in Barton's mind. But the edge had been taken away, and he knew the archer to be strong – not the type to fall apart after such a short session. So he could afford to make things last.

He remembered his previous thought about Midgardians denying their own pleasure when delivered by the wrong hands. He smirked again, still thrusting lazily. He could teach the archer a little lesson on these matters.

He ran his hands on Barton's sweaty back, rubbed his neck, slid them below his sore shoulders to caress his sturdy chest, smiling at each of his shivers. He had to lean forward in order to do this, burying himself up to the hilt, which caused Barton to bite into his gag with a scowl. But when Loki's lips brushed his ear, the demi-god could feel him tensing again, _listening,_ thinking he was about to finally say something. He let him stew for a second, then released him without a word and resumed his slow thrusts, smirking wickedly at the archer's obvious despair.

So. Pleasure. He angled his hips in search of the right spot.

 

*

 

So Loki had the stamina of a god, which was probably to be expected – and it only added to Clint's ordeal. Who knew how long this would last. And the bastard still wouldn't say anything, although he knew him to be listening and aware. Why had he gagged him, anyway ? So he couldn't be heard ? Or so he wouldn't speak either ? Clint was inclined towards that last option – then he was inclined towards madness, as Loki gave a particularly wicked thrust, panting above him. The archer gave a long, desperate moan behind his gag, then shut up, pressing his face against the floor. But his thoughts were running again, damn him, why couldn't he just faint, and he was beginning to realize that Loki was being less thorough – more precise, varying the angles, as though he was looking for something...

 _Then_ he hit it and Clint buckled, taking in a sharp breath. The wave of pleasure which spread into him left him nauseous, as though he had been bathed in stinky oil sticking to his skin. He heard a faint chuckle above him, then _that_ spot was hit again and again, rubbed against, poked and prodded, and he was shaking and writhing, trying to escape the vice of Loki's hands around his thighs, but it was hopeless. He moaned again and fought a spasm when the demi-god hit his prostate again, pressing as much as he could. Then felt himself being slightly lifted off the floor, and the next second a hand was wrapping around his cock. He tensed immediately, glaring at the floor as though he could have dug a hole in it. _No. No. NO. Go fuck yourself._

As though he had guessed his thoughts, Loki chuckled again and began thrusting violently. He was now hitting that damn spot each damn time, and even the rubbing of his cock was sublimating into pleasure. Clint arched, twisting his own arms, trying to focus on the pain in his abused shoulders. It was pointless, though. He was getting giddy from arousal – his cock hard and twitching in Loki's grasp. He screwed his eyes shut – wished with all his strength to black out before he could – before he – _God_ – before –

Loki slammed into him and the _very_ second before Clint's orgasm could seize him, he squeezed the base of his cock in an iron grip. The archer shouted behind his gag as he both climaxed and didn't climax, pulsing only once in Loki's hand, his whole body burning and trembling uncontrollably. Loki kept him there for a long, excruciating minute ; when he was sure the danger had passed, he released him and started thrusting again. The archer let out another helpless sob, blinded with pain and lust and branding fury.

And _fuck,_ but his orgasm was building up again. He could almost _hear_ Loki's sick smile as he braced his hand around the archer's cock again, getting ready for the second round. Clint was completely fucked open by now, but the only conscious thought in his head was _let me come_ – and he hated himself for it, even more than he hated Loki. Then suddenly he was on the edge again and he tried desperately to fight it, to spare himself at least _this_ humiliation –

– Loki _squeezed_ him again just before he came, his fingers an unforgiving hold around Clint who outright sobbed this time, twitching and writhing from the turmoil in his groin. The demi-god leaned forward for the second time, as though he was about to comment on his helplessness, but Clint wasn't a complete idiot and he knew better ; indeed, Loki didn't say anything, straightening up after a few seconds, when he was completely certain the archer wouldn't climax. Then he began fucking him again and Clint knew he was lost, because he didn't even have the presence of mind to be ashamed now, he only wanted to come, to come, to come, he wasn't even conscious of the sounds he was making any more, wasn't even realizing there was saliva on his lips and chin, the taste of leather filling his mouth, his entire being hanging upon Loki's thrusts,and he felt it coming like a tidal wave and this time nothing but death could stand in its way and he _came,_ and came and came and came as though he would never stop, almost passing out from pleasure, shaking and trembling and pulsing again and again in Loki's hand.

Then it was over, and he went limp against the floor, unable to form coherent thoughts even as Loki kept thrusting until he reached his own climax. After a while – he had completely lost awareness of time – the demi-god pulled out and left him there, drenched in sweat and come, completely motionless on the cold floor. What had happened kept playing again and again in Clint's mind like a broken record, and _now_ the shame was back, a shame worst than everything he had ever experienced, along with utter, paralyzing terror, because he had no idea what awaited him now.

Loki finally reappeared to kneel next to his head. He cut the archer's bonds and rolled him on his back without the least regard to his aching shoulders. Clint could only look at him, chest heaving, the leather gag heavy and suffocating in his mouth. The demi-god grinned – and he was beautiful like this, pale skin flushed hot, blue eyes gleaming like jewels – and undid the muzzle. Clint gasped for air, his lips raw and abused ; he couldn't talk, but Loki wasn't planning on him to do that anyway since he gripped the back of his head and crushed his mouth on his. The archer screwed his eyes shut, scalding tears rolling on his cheeks as Loki's tongue invaded him.

For a second, he thought he was finally passing out, but the darkness rushing to meet him was strangely _blue._

 

_*_

 

Loki sat back on his heels, still a little breathless, and smirked at the archer.

“Feeling sore ?”

Barton sat up, repressing a wince as he rolled his shoulders. He wasn't surprised by the fact that Loki was dressed again – he had seen him changing clothes in a matter of seconds before.

“Nah” he said after a while. “Still fit for duty, I think.”

Loki gave a satisfied nod then got on his feet. Clint followed, his slightly sullen look back on his features.

“I should probably have a wash” he noticed.

“No” Loki only said. “Get dressed.”

Barton just shrugged and went to fetch his discarded uniform. It only took him a minute to zip it back on.

“Very well” the demi-god grinned. “Now, let us leave. The Opera House is waiting for us.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! I'd love to hear anything you have to say :)


	2. Underwater

 

 

 

 

 

The wall of blue glass cracked and burst into shards, with a resonating sound of bone against metal.

Behind it was a red flame, so hot and vivid, so different from the cold colors he had been drowning in for the past week. Self-awareness rushed to meet him and his whole body screamed at him like a cantankerous wife whose husband got home late. A dull pain lingered in his shoulders and between his thighs, and much more recent bruises and bites covered him from head to toe. He wavered, his mind blinking black and blue, the confusion and panic suffocating him again – terrified at the thought of not knowing where he was, how he had gotten here, and whether the rape might start again – but he wasn't tied up this time, there was no gag in his mouth, no one behind him, and his gaze finally zeroed in on this red speck hovering before his eyes.

Relief and disbelief washed through him.

“Tasha ?” he mumbled, trying to straighten up.

She stared at him, panting, then suddenly kicked him in the head and everything went dark.

 

*

 

_Clint._

He briskly shook his head with a grunt, his arms bulging in the restraints. A shrill sound was piercing his ears like a branding blade. He scowled and shook his head again.

_Clint, you're going to be alright._

Anger rose inside his chest like a pang of nausea. _Yeah ? How do you know that ?_

He had said that out loud. He winced under the violent light.Things were beginning to settle down around him, vague shapes taking the form of objects, table, chair, woman looking at him with no compassion, no softness in her eyes.

He slumped back against the thin mattress, taking great lungfuls of air. He was really back. A wave of gratitude washed through him, so overwhelming that he could barely think.

When he reopened his eyes, she was still watching him, and the warm bliss of relief disappeared almost instantly, nausea settling back instead.

There was a silence. He looked at his restraints, feeling empty.

“How many agents did I – ”

“Don't” she cut off. “Don't do this to yourself.”

She was leaning forward to undo his cuffs – and that's when he _smelled_ it. The unmistakable odor of sex.

It was clinging to him, the heavy perfume of sweat and semen, so intimately organic that he really would have thrown up this time if not for his training. Natasha was right there and she apparently hadn't noticed anything, which was a strong clue that things were going awfully bad.

As soon as he was free, Clint got up, then gave her what he hoped was a self-explanatory wince and went to the small bathroom. She didn't say anything to stop him and he promptly locked the door behind him.

His reflection gave him a haunted look, dark rings under mercifully gray eyes. He leaned on the wall with an uncontrollable shiver and slid slowly to the floor, then only realized too late that he was having a panic attack as he began to take deep gasping breaths, like a fish out of water. _Get a fucking grip,_ he adjured himself with a scowl. He had been tortured before, he had taken more than his share of bullets, but these memories weren't really helping as horror torn up his insides like a wicked, sharp-nailed hand. He pressed against the wall and struggled violently against himself. After a while, he was able to think clearly again – it hadn't actually lasted more than a dozen seconds.

He reopened his eyes, chest heaving. Fuck, but why was he _stinking_ like that ? He must have put his clothes back on right after – right after he was – he bit the inside of lip, then opened his eyes and forced himself to hear the word in his head.

His felt like he was falling into an endless pit.

He got up and frantically zipped his tactical vest open – but stopped half-way through it. He couldn't take a shower. Natasha would hear it, and she would certainly understand.

He couldn't let her know. It wasn't just a matter of shame. He couldn't allow the wicked acts of Loki to hinder anybody, not when everything else was already going downhill. This was exactly what the bastard had been aiming for – so he would stay silent.

 _Silent._ He swallowed thickly.

The not-so-distant memory was completely soundless in his mind. He _knew_ there had been noises – moans and sniggers and groans and shouts, and flesh slapping on flesh, rubbing on flesh – but he couldn't hear them anymore, as though he and Loki had been underwater the whole time. He had been so eager to _understand_ what the fuck was going on, so desperate not to receive any answer that would have helped sorting out the pain and confusion and humiliation, that Loki's silence was still deafening him.

And suddenly he was trembling. He really wanted to vomit now, but he couldn't do that either.

Someone knocked at the door – not the bathroom door, but he still opened it. Natasha had got up instantly ; there was a man at the door, and this man was _Captain America._

And so the legends _were_ true – because when he spoke, his words sounded like a choir of angels to Clint's ears :

“You got a suit ?”

The archer swallowed.

“Yes” he said, fighting to keep a straight face, because if he looked too hopeful about a simple change of clothes –

“Then suit up.”

 

(Later on the battlefield, Steve would realize that Clint fought his way through without requiring anybody's help, even when falling to an almost certain death, and he would think to himself that the archer certainly was a lone wolf. He would never know just how much he had helped him before the _actual_ battle even began.)

 

Clint only nodded and left to fetch his uniform.

Silently.

 

*

 

Sweat had washed him from the stink in the end, and the heavy smell of shwarma took care of what might still have been lingering on his skin.

A sharp pang of pain zapped him from the inside and he crushed the sandwich in his hand. He closed his eyes and wondered how he could get past medical once they were back on the Helicarrier.

 

*

 

Clint would have preferred for Loki not to be muzzled.

 

Natasha whispered something comforting in his ear, and he forced himself to smirk, because his shades couldn't protect him from her sharp gaze. He had passed the psych exam. They both knew it didn't mean a thing to people like them, who already knew all the answers they were supposed to give.

_Tell me, what do you see ?_

But of course, they hadn't expected him to lie. They had thought he would take the tests honestly, as he was conscious they were for his own good.

_Tell me, what do you see ?_

It doesn't matter what he sees. What matters is what he feels. What he hears – or doesn't hear.

_Tell me, what do you see ?_

If he forces himself, he can make out a vague black X. Like wrists crossed and tied together.

_Tell me, what do you see ?_

 

_A butterfly._

 

Yeah, he had been declared sane in a matter of hours.

Still fit for duty.

 

Only Hawkeye could have spotted the hair-thin wrinkles etching Loki's eyes. The demi-god was grinning. Clint wanted to make him speak, make him beg, make him scream. Tear a sound, any sound, out of him.

But - he was muzzled.

 

Suddenly, he felt like a taking an hour-long shower again.

 

*

 

He realized it for the first time as warm water trickled down his back. This time, he was alone, so he didn't try to fight it and emptied himself in the toilet bowl.

Shaking on his knees, he wondered if there was a name for it. There probably was.

 

*

 

The Avengers Initiative was definitively a go, and Clint Barton got the third highest floor in the tower, just below the two flyers in the team – so maybe Stark was a bit more thoughtful than everyone gave him credit for. The archer wasn't really surprised ; somehow, he couldn't reconcile himself with the idea of a total jerk flying a nuke through an interstellar portal. Still, it was nice being able to live this high up, permanently. Almost as good as the Helicarrier itself.

 

He was fine. Really. He had healed quite quickly from the rectal tearing, without having to ask anyone for help. According to his blood tests, he was completely clean. So it was fine. It was all fine.

It made him guilty when people came to assure him that he wasn't responsible for those agent's deaths. Because honestly, he didn't care. He couldn't remember a thing from his mind-controlled episode, and it made it very simple to accept that he hadn't had indeed any part in the attack. He couldn't afford to let people know he was coping so easily, though, so he was smiling at them, and thanking them.

And thinking, _I was myself when I wished Loki would let me come. When I screamed with insane pleasure. When I thought he was beautiful._

Once or twice, he had found himself on the brink of saying it.

But in the end, he had stayed silent.

 

*

 

_There must be a name for it, I should look it up_

 

*

 

He was fine. Really.

The nightmares – he had been expecting them. He hadn't been disappointed. It was tiring, still, each night the same goddamn scene, each night the same panic and confusion, the same hands in the same places, the same weight on his thighs.

Soundless dreams.

Underwater.

 

*

 

There _had_ to be a name for it. He didn't dare asking Jarvis, though. Like a teenager who wouldn't look up porn on the family computer.

 

*

 

One day, though, he had enough. He stole Steve's tablet and did a quick search in incognito mode.

_Sedatephobia._

 

So he was fine. Really.

He just couldn't stand silence anymore.

 

Silence was suffocating him as surely as a pillow pressed on his face. Because to him, it was Loki's voice. It triggered Loki's hands and Loki's weight and Loki's –

It was stupid and it was absurd and he had never heard of this kind of PTSD before – but really, it could have been worse. There were plenty of obvious solutions.

He tried spending his days with an earphone screwed into his right ear, connected to a 24h radio station _,_ volume just high enough for him to understand what was being whispered in his ear. Not that he was listening really – he just needed to know that he _could_ hear.

As it turned out, it was a pretty good idea. The nightmares faded and disappeared in a matter of days, kept at bay by the endless murmur of the speakers in his ear.

Yep. It was just this easy.

 

“What are you listening all the time ?” Natasha asked once as she dug through the fridge.

He shrugged. “Stuff.”

She didn't wait for him to elaborate. When she left him alone, he turned the volume up just a little.

 

Of course, the best thing was chatting with other people. The problem was that Natasha would have been a bit more suspicious at that – Clint had never been very communicative even before this whole mess. But as it turned out, there was an obvious solution once again.

The other Avengers were mildly surprised when they noticed that Barton could endure hours and hours of the Incredible Banner & Stark Technobabbling Show with unfaltering patience. Tony Stark alone was a blessing. The man never seemed to get tired of the wonderful sound of his own melodious voice, and he didn't even find it weird that Clint would listen to him for hours on end. He was used to have a public, that was for sure.

 

So, there. All taken care of.

He was fine, really.

 

*

 

There's still that day when the radio lets out a pitiful _beep_ then dies in his right ear

and he forgot his charger on the Helicarrier the other day

and he's alone in the tower

and it's the middle of the night

and he feels like he's under high pressure, like his ribcage is crushing his lungs and his eyes are going to pop out

and Loki's hands are all over him and on him and _inside_ him

and he mumbles nonsense under his breath but his own voice doesn't help because it just sounds like his own thoughts like his own mind is a prison

and it bubbles up inside him like acid and he's gonna burst he's gonna blow

and he ends up scrambling out of the tower and into the nearest bar

and the liquor burns down his throat and chases the taste of leather, and there are people chatting around him and the bartender lends him a charger for his phone

 

and he can breathe again.

 

He is fine.

 

 

 

 

really

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

Natasha's expression faltered just the tiniest bit as her eyes raced through the page.

She looked up when the door of the hospital room opened on Tony, Steve and Bruce, the latter's eyes still hazy from his last transformation.

“It take it we've won” she said, shutting the medical folder.

They nodded. Bruce looked exhausted, leaning on Steve. It was always harder on him when he had to struggle against his instincts – and this time the target had been just a girl, just a stupid girl in fishnet stockings and top hat. The Hulk could have smashed her only too easily ; they had taken a great risk, but after Clint had been hit by her sonic powers, it was obvious no other member of the team could withstand it ; not even Iron Man. And she was causing great damage, there had been no time, so they had sent Banner. And apparently the girl – Black Canary, was it ? – was still alive. She must be, since Tony looked as proud as though his first-born had taken his first steps.

His smile disappeared at the look on Natasha's face, though.

“Barton ?” he guessed.

“I thought he was just unconscious ?” Steve frowned, worry creeping into his eyes.

Bruce straightened up a bit against his shoulder.

She knew they were all looking at Clint now, lying down in the bed behind her. She clenched her jaw and kept turning her back to him.

“He'll be fine” she assured. “He'll have to adapt, that's all.”

“What is it ?” Bruce murmured.

She pressed her lips shut.

“Come on” the doctor pleaded softly. “Natasha.”

She shook her head helplessly and reopened the folder. The words were still there, black on pale blue paper.

“They'll have to run some more tests” she said.

She flipped the pages.

“But apparently, he's going to wake up deaf.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it ! Do tell me what you thought :) Last chapter should be there by the end of the week.


	3. Voiceless

 

 

 

 

 

It was like coming back to the surface to find more water in lieu of air.

He took a hoarse, gasping breath he didn't hear. _Silence,_ white silence, white like the walls and the ceiling and the floor.

A hospital room. Then his clothes should be – there, on the chair next to his bed, there was his jacket and on the jacket a tangle of wires around a black shiny phone. He grabbed it and untangled the earphones, his breath catching in his throat. His ribcage felt like Iron Man was trying to make it implode. Quick, quick, quick, brisk moves and trembling fingers and beads of sweat standing out on his face, quick in his right ear, yes, he would be fine, he would be fine really, just press the little button, come on, it's just that easy, press the button, Clint, press it, press the goddamn button.

_Click._

There was a tiny, chirping voice in his right ear, as though an imp had been yelling at the top of its lungs from the bottom of his auditory canal. It was the mindless chat of the 24h radio station, yes ; but he couldn't make out the words.

Just as he raised a hand to his ear to increase the volume, someone gripped his wrist painfully and _ripped_ out the earbud.

Silence washed over him again like icy water, freezing the heart out of him. He turned and found himself face-to-face with _Loki_.

The demi-god's long fingers were digging bruises in Clint's arms. He was holding the earbud between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. The archer understood immediately what he was about to do, and he shook his head frantically to keep him from _please please please please DON'T –_

_– snap._

The demi-god opened his fingers to let the crushed little piece of technology fall to the floor. Clint choked on a panicked sob, tears rolling down his cheeks. Loki grinned then shoved him back on the bed. The archer tried to scream, to call for help, but it was as though he had forgotten how to speak. He turned his head and realized the door was _open_ ; there were nurses passing in the hallways, but they were all carrying towels or sheets or folders and they were too busy to even look inside the hospital room, to even notice Loki straddling Clint and pinning his arms on the mattress, and he arched and screamed silently again, screamed his throat raw, felt the taste of blood in his mouth, but still no sound came out, and it would have been so easy to draw their attention, to get some help, if he could have only made a sound, just a small _sound !_

Loki smiled and leaned down to kiss him ravenously, fucking his mouth in a wicked prelude. Clint couldn't even shy away. His eyes were so wide they couldn't focus. Why was this happening ? Why had he lost the radio ? The radio protected him, _voices_ protected him, but now they were all gone and he had been left alone, all alone, and something pushed between his thighs and he writhed hopelessly under Loki's cold weight and it burned and it hurt and he tried again to _shout_

 

“He's drenched in sweat.”

“Is he having a seizure or something ?”

“No, he's waking up, I don't think he can see me yet but – _hey !”_

Natasha hustled the nurse out of her way and before anyone could react, she _stabbed_ Clint in the neck with a needle. He arched on the bed, gaping sightlessly at her with feverish eyes ; then his eyelids fell shut and he went completely motionless.

The SHIELD nurse was outraged. “What the hell do you think you're doing, lady ?”

Her colleague gripped her arm painfully to shut her up and smiled nervously at Natasha.

“Agent Romanov” she said. “Do – do you have your orders ?”

The other nurse's eyes widened and she said nothing. She was probably a rookie, to make such a mistake. Natasha didn't even look at her, though ; her gaze never left Clint. Anyone who had known her well enough would have noticed that her eyes were just a bit too wide, and that the faint movement of her chest indicated her too-deep breathing.

But only one person knew her this well – and she had just sedated him.

“Be glad I did that” she said in her even voice. “One more second and he was killing you both.”

She turned to leave the room.

“Keep him under and strap him to the bed” she said. “Don't tell anyone for now. I've got to make some calls.”

 

*

 

“Oh, come on, it can't be that bad.”

_“Stark, for once in your life, will you just shut up and do as you're told ?”_

Tony took a falsely scandalized pose even though Natasha couldn't see him. “My, my, was that an emotion in your voice ?”

Natasha sounded tired, actually. _“He'll have to wake up eventually.”_

The billionaire raised an eyebrow. “Can't even afford to let him _wake up ?”_

 _“I just don't want to know how bad it_ could _get. So the sooner, the better.”_

Tony nodded, more impressed by Natasha's concern than he cared to admit. “Okay then. Send me the medical file and I'll get down to it.”

_“When will they be ready ?”_

“Oh, probably yesterday” he smirked. “Even earlier than that if I can get Bruce to help me.”

 _“He's a nuclear physicist”_ Natasha pointed out.

Tony rolled his eyes, then ended the call without bothering to answer. Seriously, people.

 

*

 

Only seven hours later, a very snarky billionaire and a suspiciously shy doctor entered Clint's hospital room. Natasha got up in a snake-like movement.

“Here” Tony said at once.

She eyed the little black box suspiciously, just as Steve appeared behind her from the small bathroom.

“What's this ?” he frowned.

“Well, obviously, I'm proposing” the billionaire deadpanned. “To you both, actually. Look, there's one for each of you...”

He opened the box and would have gotten down on one knee if not from Bruce snatching it from his hands and handing it to Natasha. Without paying attention to the billionaire's outraged glare at his very phlegmatic colleague, she picked up one of the little jewels, shining purple and black in the white light.

“You customized them” she noticed, her voice expressionless.

“I wanted them red-and-gold, but Bruce said it wouldn't be a good idea.”

She closed her fist on the metallic spheres, mentally bracing herself. Then she stepped aside, and pulled the curtain surrounding Clint's bed.

Suddenly, Tony didn't feel like joking anymore.

The archer was strapped _very_ tightly, looking pale and unhealthy. He had tried to break free several times already despite being still unconscious, judging by the marks on his wrists. His eyes never stopped moving behind his eyelids, and he was twitching and contorting his features in what had to be pain.

“Fuck” Tony breathed.

There was an eerie silence as they all looked at him.

“Are you sure that's all he needs ?” he said in an uncertain voice. “I mean, isn't there anything else wrong with – ”

“Can't hurt” she hissed between gritted teeth.

She stepped forward and gripped Clint's head to turn it on the side.

 

*

 

“Test. Test. One, two, three. Black Widow to Hawkeye, do you copy ?”

He startled and opened his eyes to the white ceiling. He was restrained again. Drenched in sweat again. His head felt heavy, his whole body was sore, but he instantly realized that it wasn't anything like – last time. He knew exactly where he was and how he had gotten here – that Black Canary girl, a bursting sound in his head, blackness claiming him and the weary thought that he'd just won a free ride into medical _again._ And there he was indeed, just as planned, and he had just heard Natasha's voice above him, so he was fine. He would be.

Still – there was the restraints thing.

“Uh” he breathed. “Why am I tied up again ?”

“'Cause we're into that kind of thing, hot stuff” Stark said somewhere on his left – then made a strangled sound as though someone had elbowed him in the ribs.

Clint couldn't help smiling. But there was something with the billionaire's voice that wasn't quite...

“Hey, you sound weird” he said. “What happened ? Can someone untie me ?”

“Think we can risk it” Steve answered on his right. “Bruce, give me a hand.”

Uh. They were _all_ here. It was touching, sure, but also kind of worrying. Clint straightened up as soon as he was free, rubbing at his wrists. They were raw and irritated. Strange. Hospitals restraints weren't supposed to hurt the patient like that.

Unless said patient struggled a lot against them.

He swallowed and repeated in what he hoped was his usual tone, “What happened ?”

They just stared at him, in silence – at which point he noticed something he hadn't thought would be left from his nightmares. The incessant chatter of his radio was gone.

“Hey, where did you put my – ” he began, raising a hand to his ear to sense a cold, wireless sphere under his fingertips.

He felt himself going extremely pale.

He grabbed the thing with two fingers, paused for a heartbeat, then eased it out of his ear.

He heard the world leaving with it, as though someone had pulled a plug in his head to let his very essence out.

He opened his palm and blinked at the little device. It was black and purple with the words _Stark Industries_ in tiny white letters.

“I take it they're working” Tony said, in a voice a bit less flippant than normal.

Clint raised two trembling fingers to his naked ear. He was still pale as death.

“Both ears ?” he murmured.

“Yes” Natasha said.

He took a deep breath.

“You'll suffer from a 80% hearing loss, but –

“Can you leave ?” he cut off.

The world was spinning around him. Even his own voice, he couldn't hear from his right side. Oh fuck. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, _anything_ but that.

“Please ?” he said in a controlled voice. “I'm... I need a moment here.”

“Of course” Bruce said at once, getting on his feet. “Guys, come on.”

 

*

 

“I'm not following” Tony said as soon as they had left the room, his voice serious for once. “I never thought he was in _that_ state. And come on _– throwing us out ?_ I mean, of course it sucks and he has every right to be pissed, but it's Hawkeye, not Hawk _ear – ”_

“He relies on his hearing more than we think” Steve noticed. “Remember how he kept listening to the radio this last month.”

Tony gave him an unimpressed look.

“Doesn't make any sense. Radio's blocking out the real thing. Besides, why would he _panic_ like that – he nearly flayed his wrists, for Christ's sake !”

“He was shocked” Steve admitted. “But he'll get better. He couldn't understand what was happening while he was still sleeping, is all.”

The billionaire stared at Natasha. “Are _you_ buying this ?”

She nodded slowly. “Shock” she murmured.

“Yeah ? Then why did you _keep_ him under ? Why didn't you just let him wake up and realize what was going on, instead of tying him to the goddamn bed ?”

“I would rather wake up with the hearing aids already in place” Bruce pointed out softly.

“Barton's a big boy” Tony said with a dark gaze. “I'm sure he could have handled a few hours of silence.”

“Maybe not” Natasha murmured.

There was a pause.

“And you think that's normal ?”

“I think he's fine _now”_ she snapped. “But you can go and interrogate him, if that's what you want.”

Tony suddenly blinked at her. She glared back :

“What ?”

He stared at her for another second, looking a bit dumbstruck. Then he said slowly :

“He doesn't talk to you. Doesn't he ?”

“He doesn't talk to anyone” she spat. “He's always been like that.”

Tony opened his mouth again but she cut him off : _“Khoui tebia_ , Stark !”

She spun on her heels and strode away.

“Uh, wow, okay” the billionaire said. “What the hell was that ?”

“Fuck you” Bruce murmured.

Steve and Tony stared at him.

He shrugged apologetically. “I'm just translating.”

 

*

 

Yep. Sorry, but Iron Man was not buying it.

Barton was definitely not fine – the most worrying sign being that the Ice Queen had snapped at Tony like your average Hulk – and it hadn't got anything to do with the whole deaf thing.

Well, maybe it _was_ related, but that was not the heart of the problem. You don't restrain and drug Clint Barton unless he's on the brink of going completely ballistic.

As in, mind-controlled ballistic.

Tony kind of lost track of what he was doing and leaned on his work table, staring in space. When Barton had moved in two months ago, he hadn't known the guy well enough to ask him about the whole Loki mess. Now, he probably did – saving the world apparently did wonders for developing friendships ; besides, Barton was his type of guy – but until Black Canary, Barton had seemed just fine. He was an awesome archer spy who could keep up with a bunch of super-freaks, for Christ's sake. It wasn't surprising that he'd be able to deal magnificently with a bit of mindfuck.

Of course, Tony found it slightly weird that he was listening non-stop to a crappy radio ; but hell, they all had their hobbies, and Barton's seemed almost normal in regard of what the _other_ members of the team were doing during their free time.

But as it turned out, he had never been fine. Natasha had probably known from the beginning, but he had pushed her away, perhaps even without realizing it – that was why she had been so angry. She reminded Tony of Pepper after the strawberry omelet episode, of bleak memory.

Yeah. Barton was his type of guy. They even made the same mistakes.

 

*

 

It was the middle of the night and according to Jarvis, Clint was currently watching TV in the living room. But either the AI had developed the ability to lie while Tony was looking the other way, either he hadn't been watching close enough, because by the time the billionaire had reached his floor, Clint was fast asleep on the couch. On Jarvis's defense, he was barely slumping, like the trained assassin he was.

A purple spark on the dark cushion caught Tony's eye as he got closer. One of Clint's hearing aids had dropped. Well, shit – apparently, he would have to re-think the design of those things. Maybe wrap them in an adhesive material, like thin rubber.

He repressed a yawn. He couldn't decently wake up the archer, but now that he was here, he didn't feel like going back to the lab just now. Might as well doze off in front of the TV – nothing like a superhero life to really appreciate ordinary decadence.

So he sat next to Clint and diligently stared at the screen with increasingly glassy eyes – without noticing that the archer's _other_ earbud had dropped too, quite some time ago.

 

*

 

_Loki smirked at him and opened his arms wide._

_Clint realized he wasn't restrained. This was his chance. The chance to make it all stop. It wouldn't take much. Just one word. He could certainly get one word out of him._

_He pounced on him and slammed him against the floor. Loki kept grinning like a madman, but didn't fight back. Clint grabbed his shoulders and slammed him again, and again, and again._

_“Fucker” he tried to say, but – couldn't hear his own voice. No, no, no, he was losing again, and this time it was his own fault, Loki was right there and there was nothing he could –_

_– he punched him in the face, felt bone cracking under his knuckles. It seemed to him that Loki had struggled, but when he looked at him, he was still smirking as though he had been wearing a mask of himself._

_“I'll kill you – ” Clint panted soundlessly. “I'll – ”_

_Loki kept_ grinning _and Clint saw red. “SAY SOMETHING !” he shouted mutely, shaking him. “SAY SOMETHING ! I SWEAR, IF YOU DON'T OPEN YOUR FUCKING MOUTH – ”_

 _Then suddenly there was something_ drilling _into his wrist and he let go with a cry of pain –_

 

“ – CLINT !”

The archer's eyes suddenly cleared up and he let go of Tony, scrambling back.He stared at him in increasing horror, detailing the bruises and blood on his face.

“I – ” he gasped, then snapped his mouth shut. His voice sounded weird, like it came from the inside of his head. Tony was staring at him with wide eyes, petrified. He wasn't _saying_ anything and out of habit, Clint wanted to adjust his radio – but as soon as he twitched his right hand, he hissed in pain. His wrist was red with oozing blood. The billionaire had bitten him – and quite deeply, too.

Terror and confusion were pounding against his ribs, scrambling his thoughts, but it didn't take a genius to understand what had happened. First things first – his panic was rapidly increasing. Clint's eyes darted left and right and he located them almost instantly, the two little spheres abandoned on the couch. He heaved himself up just high enough to snatch them, then sat back on the floor and screwed them in his ears with trembling hands.

“So TV _does_ make people violent” the billionaire muttered – and Clint almost sobbed in relief, because he could _hear_ him.

And it was enough for him to feel better already, even though he had almost killed Stark because of a stupid nightmare.

“I'm – ” He took a second to breathe. “I'm sorry.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Clint tried to resist, he really did, but he felt like there was something in his entrails trying to get out, and sweat was rolling down his back again.

“Can you... can you _say_ something ?” he blurted. “Anything.”

“Why ?” Tony murmured, his eyes dark in his pale, bruised face.

One word. One word was not _enough._ Clint clenched his jaw.

“I – I just want to make sure you're fine” he said with difficulty.

“I'm fine.”

Fuck. What the hell was wrong with him ? Usually, you'd have to hit Tony in the face for him to stop babbling. Perhaps he was in shock – he seemed badly beaten up. Guilt added itself to panic inside Clint's twisting guts.

“I'm sorry” he repeated, his own voice sounding empty in his ears. “I had a nightmare.”

“So I gathered” Tony said. “Is this how you question people ? Because if so, I've got to tell you, my friend : you're even less subtle than our resident Hulk.”

“How... what ?” the archer stammered, weak with relief now that Tony was getting started.

“ _Say something”_ Stark mimicked with sour irony. “At least you're going straight to the point.”

Clint's breath caught somewhere in his throat. Tony stared at him.

Then he said in a low voice :

“It's Loki, isn't it ?”

It wasn't a question, not really.

The archer froze, his blood suddenly pounding in his ears. He averted Tony's eyes, focusing on a dark stain on the floor. Which didn't really help, since he realized it was the billionaire's own blood.

“Look, um” Tony said. “I'm not a shrink – hell, I'm probably a lot more fucked up than you – but you tried not telling anyone and it didn't work. And I can't help you if I don't get it. So, I'm here. And I've got ears, too.”

The archer huffed a breath and didn't say anything, trying to resist until he couldn't stand the silence anymore. He lasted a grand thirty second. Tony was still waiting for him to speak, but he only said in an altered voice :

“The – the earbuds.” He swallowed, resisting the urge to fidget with the one in his right ear. “Will you – will you make them so they don't fall anymore ?”

“Will you tell me what's wrong ?” Tony said quietly.

Clint looked up at him, suddenly breathless with a pang of pure rage. “You son of a – ”

“ _Whoa_ there” Tony scowled. “First, I don't need you beating the shit out of me twice in one night, thanks. Second, I'm not _blackmailing_ you, goddammit. Of course I'll improve them.”

He glared, then added : “But these things are just treating the symptoms and you know it.”

The archer swallowed, blushing in shame, and stared at the floor again.

“Sorry” he mumbled, throat tight. “About the whole, uh.”

He waved a hand around, then dropped it.

“It's okay” Tony answered with dignity.

There was a silence.

And it was lasting.

Clint curled up on himself with a long moan and gripped his head with both hands.

“Please” he panted from between his knees. “Please. Say something.”

Tony stayed silent, unbearably silent, but after a second the archer heard the carpet rustling under his weight as he shifted to lean on the couch.

“Okay then” he finally said. “Bedtime story. Ever heard of waterboarding ?”

Clint's eyes were wide open beneath the shelter of his arms. He didn't answer anything.

“Well, I did” Tony went on. “Up close and personal. It's funny how much of a sport it can get when you're trying not to get your battery wet while you're at it. Yeah, cause I didn't have the reactor at the time – a plain old car battery, can you believe it ?”

“I've read your file” Clint muttered.

“Yeah ? And does the file say how I never took a bath again after that ?”

The archer uncurled just enough to glare at him.

“Your suits can go underwater.”

“But they're armor” Tony said simply. “It's like a glass wall. Like your radio, somehow. Keeps things at bay.”

Clint didn't answer anything, and the both of them fell silent again.

By then, Tony must have understood it wouldn't last. In fact, he was about to speak again when the archer took a deep breath.

“It's like – ” he said.

He stopped and bit his lip to draw blood, so the taste of leather would go away.

“ – what you said. A glass wall. Except I'm on the wrong side.”

Tony waited.

The silence stung and bit, daring Clint to fill it. And he kept trying, even though he had been hopelessly, helplessly voiceless ever since Manhattan.

“I keep reliving it. I was suddenly there and it was all... soundless. And I couldn't understand what was going on. I didn't know how I'd got there, or anything. It was as though I was just born and before I could – he –” He closed his eyes.

Tony was listening. The silence was creeping back again. Clint took another breath and forced himself to speak.

“I was... He gagged me” he said with difficulty. “And he never said a thing. Never gave me a clue on what was happening – why he was doing this. Not even when it was over.”

Tony's eyes widened just the tiniest bit.

“Now – _now_ I get it, of course” Clint stammered. “But at the time, I was completely lost. And I didn't keep my guard up, I – I let him get to me. It's not my – it was... I didn't _want_ to – to come.”

The word had escaped his lips in his childish justifications and it was too late to take it back. He was out.

Now Tony just looked like he wanted to throw up. His gaze was so horrified that Clint flinched a little. The silence was edging on unbearable again, but he didn't want to alarm the billionaire even more, so he dug his nails into his palms and bit the inside of his cheek, and endured it.

“But – ” Tony murmured eventually – and Clint stopped holding his breath, it was like bathing in warm water, _God keep talking, please keep talking to me –_ “how come nobody... I mean, after Manhattan, we all – ”

Clint managed a crooked grin. “I skipped medical, Stark, like I always do when I get the chance. Those things last forever.”

Tony didn't look impressed. In fact, he looked sicker and sicker, and the blood smeared on his face wasn't helping. All of sudden, guilt was clawing at Clint's insides again.

“Fuck, I really did a number on you, didn't I ?” he murmured.

“I'll be fine” Tony said automatically. “But you... I...”

“Don't bother” the archer reassured him. “You've done more than enough, really. I owe you.” He raised a hand to his earbud without touching it really. “I – I don't know what I would have done without those. If I'd woken up completely deaf.”

Tony gave him a really weird look.

Suddenly, he blurted :

“Tell Natasha.”

Clint froze. “What ?”

“Tell her. If you want to thank me. Tell her what happened.”

The archer shook his head nervously. “I don't want her to know that I... I mean, she got through a lot worse. If she could do it, there's no reason I – ”

“Oh my GOD !”Tony yelled, startling him. “You're both so stupid even the textbook narcissist can see it ! Seriously, what is it ? A _dick contest ?_ Well guess what, she doesn't have one, so you can tell her without endangering your precious masculinity !”

Clint blinked at him in bafflement for a second, then let out a faint sneer.

“Like you told Potts about your heart ?”

“I _did_ tell her” Tony snapped back.

The archer stared at him until he deflated a little with a wince.

“Yeah, piece of advice, though : try actual words, instead of expressing yourself through a variety of unfortunate foods.”

Clint smiled his first real smile from the beginning of the night. “What idiot would do that ?”

“Beats me” the billionaire mumbled, but a smile was tugging at his lips too.

There was yet another silence. The archer buried his face in his hands.

“She, uh. She's probably asleep right now. It must be like, four am.”

“Yeah, but if I were you – ” Tony began.

“Can you have Jarvis... waking her or something ? Let her know I'm coming ?”

Clint looked up and found Tony gaping at him. Without a word, the billionaire nodded.

“Okay” the archer sighed.

He got on his feet and was already half-way out when he stopped to add, in a low voice, “Thanks.”

 

*

 

Natasha's silence was the harshest of them all.

 

Clint hadn't even got inside. He had leaned against the doorframe the whole time, stared at the floor while he was explaining the whole thing, in one breath, with halting but unambiguous words.

 

Now he was done and she was just staring at him.

 

It was a bad idea.

 

At first, he had felt maybe a bit lighter. Now he just felt like he was drowning.

 

It was a bad idea.

 

“It was a bad idea” he muttered.

She still wouldn't say anything. This was a silence he definitely wouldn't be able to bear.

 

He left and closed the door behind him. Once he was in the hallway, he dug into his pocket for his radio, forced the earphone in his ear next to the hearing aid, and turned the volume on full blast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I had to split the third chapter in half after all, because of reasons. Fourth (and last !) will be there in a few days. In the meantime, feel free to comment ^^ And thank you so much for reading !


	4. Quiet

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Sorry for waking you up” Tony muttered, his eyes never leaving the glass in his right hand. “I thought you might want to know.”

(It was now past 5 am., way too late or way too early for a drink this strong, but nobody in the room seemed to give a shit. So.)

He downed the amber liquor, then winced. “No, that's a lie. I needed to tell someone.”

Steve and Bruce were watching him with the same adorable bed-hair – and the same expression of bottomless horror. None of them said anything and it was beginning to set him on edge. Was that silence phobia thing contagious ?

“You think I should have kept it to myself ?” he asked in an uncertain voice.

“No !” Steve answered instantly. “No, I'm glad. I just... wish I had figured it out by myself. To think I was oblivious all this time – ”

“ _Hey”_ Tony berated him. “Don't get started on the guilty leader theme. You wanna blame someone, blame us all. We should all have noticed.”

“Natasha did” Bruce murmured.

They stared at him. He had sleepy eyes and stubble on his chin and Tony knew his mind to be running faster than Jarvis itself.

“She insisted to get the hearing aids as fast as possible.”

“But I don't get it” Steve said. “How does... _it..._ explain the – the silence thing ?”

Tony cleared his throat with difficulty.

“From what I gathered, um” he swallowed, “Barton _should_ have felt like he'd passed out in the Tesseract Vault, then came round on the Helicarrier.”

“This means...”

“Loki _woke him up.”_ Bruce sounded disgusted. “He interrupted the mind-control just to – ”

“Yeah” Tony rasped, pouring himself another drink. “And he didn't say a thing during the whole...” He waved his hand around in a helpless gesture. “Didn't allow him to talk either. It's the silence that traumatized Barton, really. He's tough – he probably could have coped if he'd only known where he was, who was there with him, but...”

“Of course Loki wouldn't help him with that” Bruce growled.

Tony's glass tightened a bit on the glass, because the doctor's voice was – _whoa._ He could feel tremendous power pulsing beneath each word. It was enough to make his own blood boil up with adrenaline beneath the skin.

“Doc” Steve said in a warning tone.

“I am fine” Bruce said, his every word chiseled with unearthly precision.

He took a deep breath. “I've got it.”

“Maybe we should – ”

“I've _got_ it” the doctor repeated, his calm more threatening than any weapon.

Tony shrank down a little in his chair and Steve didn't add anything.

There was a long silence. Tony wondered how it was when your worst nightmare was only kept at bay with _words._ Such a frail armor against the unspeakable. Barton had spent a month like this, all alone with only a radio to keep him sane. And now to top it all, he'd gone _deaf._ No wonder he was losing it.

Tony's head was spinning.

“Are you alright ?” Bruce said, his voice soft again.

“What ? Bruce, God, yes, I'm not the one you should – ”

“The bruises, I mean” the doctor said with a slight smile. “He really kicked your ass.”

“Oh” the billionaire said, then winced almost reflexively, wiping blood from his jaw. “Uh, yeah. Known worse.”

Another silence.

“What now ?” Tony murmured.

“We can't tell Fury” Bruce instantly said.

The billionaire expected Steve to jump at that – even though he was far from being the mindless private he'd originally thought him to be – but the super-soldier only winced.

“I don't think it'd help” he admitted slowly. “But we can't leave him like that.”

He suddenly blinked.

“By the way, where is he now ?”

“He's... I kind of made him go and tell Natasha” Tony said, squirming.

They stared at him and there ought to be a law against the level of awkwardness a man could experience in his own living-room.

“And... did he ?” Bruce asked eventually.

“Well, he left the room, but – ”

“He did” an emotionless voice interrupted.

All three men jumped and turned.

Natasha was standing in the doorframe. She was fully clothed and Tony suddenly felt self-conscious even though he had every right to be in his pajamas at 6 in the morning. The Living-Room Awkwardness Act, goddammit. He would have to pull some strings, but he was definitely making this happen.

“He told you ?” Steve asked.

“Yes” she said, opening the fridge to grab the orange juice.

“Everything ?”

“Yes” she repeated calmly, pouring herself a glass.

As it turned out, it wasn't for her, though. She crossed the room and snatched Tony's scotch from his hands, replacing it with the glass of juice. He eyed it with actual apprehension.

“Did you poison it ?”

“No” she said lightly, putting the bottle back in the fridge.

There was a silence.

“What are we going to do ?” Bruce asked – a surprising question coming from him.

She was staring at the wall. Eventually, she said :

“Nothing.”

 _“Nothing ?”_ Steve called as she turned to leave. “I thought you cared about him !”

But she was gone already. Tony felt as cold as though the words had been directed at him personally.

“What the fuck” he mumbled. “Is this SHIELD bullshit ? A 'boys-don't-cry' kind of thing ? I know she's been through a lot, but it doesn't mean – ”

His voice trailed off.

He recognized these words, from the archer's mouth, only an hour ago. Clint had known she would react like that – he had tried to tell Tony, but Tony had brushed it aside like he always did, and sent Clint to war without bothering to take the time to think about it.

Wonderful, Stark. Really, made a flawless job of it. Only him could manage to make this whole mess even worse.

Unaware of Tony's miniature freak-out, Steve looked outright scandalized and he might have ran after Natasha if not for Bruce's soft-spoken words.

“Guys, I think it's time for breakfast.”

They stared at him in a mix of guilt and indignation.

“Bruce" Tony finally uttered, "do you really think that's our highest priority ?”

“Well, yes” he said with round, adorable eyes. “It's nearly 6 by now. And Natasha made it very clear that _we_ aren't supposed to do anything.”

Suspicion and uncertainty crept into their gazes, adding themselves to the mix. It was almost funny to watch.

“You know something” Tony accused him, narrowing his eyes.

“No” Bruce answered almost cheerfully. “I just happen to trust her on this one.”

He got up, running a hand through his ruffled hair.

“You should drink that orange juice, Tony.”

 

*

 

It happened on the third night.

 

*

 

Clint had been going through hell ever since the Nightmare Incident.

Tony's face was black and purple and blue and he couldn't bear to look him square in the eye, not really, especially not since it was so obvious that the billionaire had told Steve and Bruce right away. They _tried_ to hide it, but it was pointless – he was too trained and too self-conscious not to notice. Now they all knew, which was humiliating enough ; but most of all, he lived in the constant fear that one of them might ask him about Natasha's reaction.

As for Natasha herself – it burned just to think of her, a mix of anger and disappointment and excruciating despair.

She had just _looked_ at him.

Every time he recalled his agonizing confession – how hard it had been to pour it all out, because he wouldn't normally _do_ that, but he had somehow used Tony's order as an excuse and why would he do that he couldn't even remember – and the look in her eyes – a pang of fury in his chest, _I just told you I was raped, don't you think it would be only polite to say something_ – but no, nothing, only that look in her eyes, that _silence –_ he had to bite his fist, _hard,_ so clear sharp pain would chase everything else away.

After only a day, his right hand was studded with bite marks, some of them bloody.

To be honest, it didn't even help that much.

 

*

 

On the third night –

 

*

 

Natasha wasn't his main problem.

(She _wasn't.)_

His main problem was that he ended up avoiding about every one in the tower. He was walking a very, very thin line here. Maybe he just ought to resign and resume his job as a field agent.

That wouldn't change anything in the end, and he knew it.

 

This time, he really had nothing but the radio to keep it together. With the added threat of a possible dysfunction in his hearing aids, it was enough to drive him completely paranoiac. His hand was almost glued to his right ear, and when he was alone in his room he just asked Jarvis to broadcast the 24h radio directly through the speakers. At night, he would use the earphones again, though ; because Tony probably knew the use Clint was making of his AI, and the archer wished he could make it seem like he was just listening in the news during the day, like a normal person – even though he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

And it kept getting worse. He couldn't have slept – fuck, at this point he couldn't have _walked straight –_ without the voices chirping in his ear ; but with them, things were only slightly better now. The incessant chatter was beginning to set him on edge, because in the end, it was only mindless voices, people not addressing him at all, people who were miles and miles away and totally unaware of his existence, and he thought that maybe one day even the radio wouldn't be enough and should this day ever come – well, should this day ever come, he would rather jump off a building than finish his days in an asylum.

 _Perhaps I should team up with Deadpool ?_ he thought with dark humor. The guy never stopped talking, that was a given. Just how low had he gotten if Wade Wilson was the last thread he was hanging upon for sanity ?

The smile tugging at his lips vanished. Because in the end, there was really nothing funny about it.

 

*

 

On the third day, he he suddenly stopped pacing his room with a surge of anger. No, _fuck_ no, this was just too stupid, too ridiculous. No way he would let himself go down – not like this.

He faced his mirror and scowled to himself in defiance.

“Come on, Barton” he groaned. “Man the fuck up.”

He raised a trembling hand to his right ear ; his fingers froze in mid-air, and he had to take several deep breaths before he could get them to move again. He grabbed the tiny earphone, waited for a heartbeat, then suddenly tugged it out.

He unconsciously took a deep breath as though he had really dove underwater – it felt exactly the same, cold and airless, and so _silent,_ even though he was still wearing his hearing aids – but he couldn't even reconcile himself with considering the physical possibility of taking them out. _Perhaps some other day. Perhaps some other year._

For a second, he thought he would manage. He was hanging for dear life upon his own gray eyes, chest heaving like he could never breathe enough for his head to stop spinning.

Silence was enveloping him like a thick coat. Like a strait-jacket. Like a strangling hold.

_Just fucking breathe. It's not that hard._

The wall behind him seemed like it was getting closer, as though the room was shrinking down.

He swallowed and stared at it, trying to push it back through sheer will.

The wall was very, very white.

But not as white as the fingers who suddenly trailed across his chest.

Clint kept staring in space with wide screaming eyes. He could not deny the human weight in his back, or the long, black locks brushing his shoulders. Or the fingers digging in his neck. The legs wrapping against his own. The hand sliding under his shirt –

 

– he plugged the earphone back and slumped against the desk, holding back burning tears. The speaker was cheerfully chiming in his ear, oblivious. It was a beautiful day and there had been interesting discoveries in the genetic basis of inherited cancer risk and they would be getting back to it in a minute but first they would be receiving a very special guest which would tell them everything about the revival of US architecture so please stay tuned to hear more coming right up after this bulletin of news –

 

*

 

Three days since he had told Tony.

He wouldn't make such a mistake again. In the end, he'd just exposed a weakness and made it all worse. Natasha had been right to disregard his childish confession.

(It was easier to tell himself that.)

 

*

 

At this rate, he might not even have a chance to make mistakes ever again, though.

 

*

 

The third night –

 

*

 

The third night, Clint was lying down with the radio still unfalteringly awake in his ear. His failed attempt was weighing down on him, and a bubble of actual, pure panic was beginning to swell inside him at the thought that he might just not _survive_ this.

What a shitty way to go.

Third night since he had told Tony.

He wondered whether he would keep counting until the end. He was slowly sinking down the swamps of madness, and he knew it. Even though the thought obsessed him, he still drifted off after a few hours of lying on his side and barely breathing in the dark.

In fact, he only realized he had fell asleep when the bed dipping under someone else's weight jolted him awake.

 

He turned on his back and sat up, his mind still clouded with slumber. When he saw who it was, though, he didn't feel like sleeping at all anymore.

 

She was sitting cross-legged in front of him in her home-made pajamas, a black tank-top and loose, dark slacks. She was staring at him, but for once there was no coldness whatsoever in her eyes. She just looked...

Words like _shy_ or _vulnerable_ or _hesitant_ would never fit her, but there was a certain softness in her face, something Clint had only seen during missions before. An openness, somehow.

He straightened up a bit more, swallowing a lump in his throat. He waited for her to speak. To explain. Waited under her watchful gaze, like he had waited under someone else's weight, some time ago.

She wouldn't say anything.

 _She wouldn't say anything –_ and suddenly that was it, as though something had snapped beyond repair inside him – the radio was now nothing more than an irritating, useless sizzling. Useless, like the crap it had always been.

He was doomed.

 

But Natasha was watching him, and as though she had caught the flicker of raw terror in his eye, she finally, finally, _finally_ spoke. 

“The safe-word” she said gently, “is any word.”

That didn't clear up anything and it was almost more frustrating than actual silence ; but before he could ask what she meant, she reached for his earphone, curled her fingers around the thin wire – and pulled it out.

He took a sharp breath and held it. Even though he couldn't count on the radio anymore, it was still a thousand times worse in complete silence. Each of his muscles went taut as a bowstring, but he was determined to resist for as long as he could – determined not to fall apart before her – although he knew he wouldn't last very long now that...

But then she did something.

She opened her other hand.

 

She opened her other hand and he saw two little drop-shaped things, right there in her open palm. His thoughts were growing so blurry with creeping panic that it took him a good ten seconds to understand what it was.

 

_Earplugs ?_

 

With slow, tranquil moves, she put them in her ears, then tilted her head on the side and waited for a second, staring in space as she got her bearings in her new-found deafness.

Clint was still holding his breath, but he realized he had never been noise-free from this long ever since Manhattan – and he still hadn't lost it, although he was now dangerously close to the edge.

Why wasn't he snapping ?

Earplugs. He still couldn't get his lungs to work. _The safe-word is any word._ If there was a safe-word, he could stop this, whenever he wanted. Right ?

 _Try breathing. Breathing shouldn't be this hard,_ he thought desperately.

She looked at him with those luminous eyes, then grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and slowly, carefully, lifted it above his head. Without thinking, he let her, raising his arms and leaning back for the fabric to peel off him, even though a part of him was freaking out at the thought of finding himself so vulnerable – so _bare,_ for the first time since –

– then it got worse when the t-shirt took out one of his hearing aids on its way. He startled and made a brisk move to catch it, but two fingers on his wrist stopped him. Not clutching, not even curling around it, just two fingers on his skin.

He shivered, once, and left the little device where it was. And when Natasha reached out to take the other one out, he did it before her and set it on the nightstand. It was excruciating, like building his own coffin, but he did it anyway.

Then he locked eyes with her and finally, _finally,_ exhaled deeply in the complete silence.

 

They stared at each other for a long minute, both mute, both deaf. Then Natasha appeared to remember that Clint was bare-chested, and she took off her tank top in a graceful move, revealing a dark bra on snow-pale skin underneath.

She looked up at him again. Clint's heart was pounding now, but for all its violence, it wasn't erratic. Something was shifting inside him, blinking open, adjusting to an unexpected change.

She had joined him in his pool of silence. Words themselves had been rendered powerless, now that she couldn't hear them either.

And if words were no longer the solution, then silence was no longer the problem. It was a part of them both. It was _normal._ Both mute, both deaf.

It was amazing that he had never had this idea before, the idea of a silence that wouldn't be a wall, but a shared space. Something set especially for wordless comprehension.

 

When she leaned in, he was ready.

 

He closed his eyes and opened his mouth against her lips, felt the tip of her tongue prodding inside. It was wet and warm and he had never kissed her before.

Not once in all these years.

When her hands brushed his shoulders, he couldn't help tensing. She instantly pulled back and looked him in the eye. It was better than words, and he relaxed against her, settled back in her arms. She slightly grazed his back with her nails, making him shiver. He caressed her sides, opened her bra and slid it down slowly to let it fall on the sheets. As she pressed against him, he knelt up to kiss her deep. Her hands kept trailing over his body, sliding under the waist of his boxers to caress his ass, his upper thighs, trail back up to his lower back, following the hard lines of his muscles, tip-toeing along an old scar. His own hands moved on their own to cup her round shoulders ; to slide down her arms, then up around her breasts, weighing and soft against his palms.

Her body was so pale it seemed to glow softly in the dark room.

When her hand settled on his navel, he froze so suddenly that she startled, too. She stared him in the eye once more, her own eyes so concerned, so _caring_ , that Clint just closed his own eyes and pressed his forehead against hers.

Trying to breathe.

_The safe-word is any word._

She couldn't hear, sure, but she was so close she couldn't possibly miss it if he spoke. He parted his lips. He was not ready. The mere thought of it made his temples wet with cold sweat.

But this time, he knew what was happening, he knew exactly how they had gotten here, even though she hadn't said a word – which was an amazing step forward already. He didn't want to stop here. He was a motherfucking _Avenger._ This time, he could and would walk the extra mile – if only because he was cornered now that he couldn't count on his glass wall anymore.

It was easy, really. He would be fine. He would be fine. He just had to nod.

 

His eyes still shut, he nodded.

 

When her hand trailed down his boxers, he hissed a breath none of them heard, and tensed against her. For a horrifying second there was another weight pressed against him, another mouth brushing his neck, and a stinging pain between his legs.

But then he opened his eyes, saw a red flame, and it was all gone.

Gone.

 

It was just him and Natasha making love.

 

He had forgotten how _good_ this was supposed to feel – and even better, a million times better was the feeling of his own liberation, as though his ribcage had suddenly expanded to infinity, as though he was suddenly able to breathe all the air there was in the world. He let out a surprised pant at how _simple_ , how easy it was, of course, why would it be otherwise really – he slumped against her, breathing like mad, breathing like he was catching up for these increasingly suffocating weeks, and when she pushed her hand deeper in his boxers, desire rushed through him all of a sudden, like a stream of ice and fire. He _wanted_ it – and it felt like being home again after years at war.

He pressed more urgently against her, kissed her like he would die the moment he stopped, and she understood, pushing him back to straddle him, heaving herself up on her knees to wriggle out of her slacks while she pulled down his boxers – then she lowered herself and – and took him all in, swallowed him up where it was warm.

He threw his head back, and when they arched together in their world of silence, he realized just how much he had _wanted_ this, from the very beginning maybe, just how bad he had needed it, needed _her,_ all this time, even before this whole fucked-up mess. How he had looked the other way, because she was the Black Widow, and he was the Hawk, and it was against common sense and way too dangerous, way too degrading, because they were field agents who knew the world for what it was, who were expected not to fall into such an obvious trap, who were above such childish things as sentiment –

 

– but sentiment, _sentiment_ was what saved them in the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Natasha's hair was very red on sheets as pale as her skin. She was sleeping on her stomach with an arm folded under her head. The first sun rays were shining at the window.

Clint watched her with his eyes ajar.

He listened to the immense silence filling the room, completely impossible to ignore, hovering above and around their naked bodies like clear water. Without the hearing aids, it was absolutely soundless.

 

It was absolutely quiet.

 

He carefully set a hand flat on her back, as he would have touched a sleeping cat ; she shivered like one, then relaxed under his calloused palm. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

And he slept – soundly. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't reconcile myself with writing an epilogue to this story – I felt it would ruin the end. But just so you know, Bruce made a little “I told you so” dance, Tony started drinking orange juice again instead of scotch in the morning - and after a few more weeks of slow healing, Clint began taking off his hearing aids whenever he was annoyed with someone's rambling.
> 
> Well, so, hope you liked the end *grins* Thank you for reading !  
> I can haz feedback, please ? I'd really like to know what you thought.


End file.
